Losing Ground
by PJ XD
Summary: Tom Riddle Jr. controls everything and everyone around him. People are chess pieces, and the world is his game. Until her. Augusta Abbott. The girl with a spine of steel and an opinion of her own. The girl who refuses to be controlled. Now, locked in a battle of the wills, Tom is determined to break her. But this might just be the first game he stands a chance of losing...
1. Chapter 1

**_Tom, 16_**

She keeps looking at me.

It's beyond irritating, those bug-like eyes just staring and staring. I don't know what she wants, but I'm certain it's not inclusion into my inner circle. I won't deny her the privilege, should she ask. Her blood is pure.

Purer, even, than my own. I stifle a laugh as I think of my – for lack of a better term – friends. How deluded they truly are, how willing to believe in me they must be, if they have never questioned my own parentage, as I have theirs. You would think they'd have had cause. They know where I spend every godforsaken summer. Shut up in that dreadful place with nothing but my misery for company, confined to the world of muggles and filth.

Yet they are faithful, and dutiful, and they don't question me. They _crave_ my acceptance. The sad joke is that they will never get it. Why should I give them my respect, when they so sycophantically follow? Puppets are there to be manipulated. Their compliance is their weakness, and I shall never respect the weak.

"Is something funny, Tom?"

She's speaking to me, but that's no surprise. The girls in this castle seem compelled to talk to me, to know me, to see into my soul. It's pathetic, and moreover it's pointless. If they tried to _truly_ look into my soul, they'd find nothing but the ripped, charred part of me that remains inside my feeble mortal body. I've moved far, _far_ beyond a fragile human soul.

She's still watching me, blue eyes blinking impatiently. The girl actually expects me to answer. Amused by her persistence, I grant her a response.

"You wouldn't understand."

The look she gives me is contemptuous, and I'm taken aback. That is an expression I see on nobody, at least not directed my way.

"Oh? Try me. Or am I not twisted enough to appreciate your sense of humour?"

I glance at the front of the class, where Slughorn is mid-digression, reminiscing about his collection of famous pets as though they are of real consequence to the rest of the dungeon. He does not notice, or perhaps doesn't care, that I am having this hushed conversation with the girl. I have been the crown jewel in his collection of students since the moment I set foot in this castle, and he will look the other way, no matter what.

He is pliable. Weak, like the rest of them.

I turn my attention back to her, inclined towards me across the bench, but as far away as the desk will allow. She tucks a strand of her long, honey-brown hair behind one ear and raises an eyebrow at me. Waiting again.

"Why do you want to know?" I lean in, inquisitive, a charming smile gracing my lips. I am a master at this. Making people bend to my will. I get what I want, without fail. In this case, what I want is for her to stop speaking to me.

She draws back at my proximity, her nose wrinkling in distaste. "Call it morbid curiosity. But, forget it. I've decided that I don't want to know."

With that, she turns her face away, as though she can't bear the sight of me for a second longer. I'm puzzled.

I realise, dimly, that I have what I desired in the first place. She's stopped speaking. But instead of feeling satisfied, a niggling sense of irritation fills my stomach. Yes, she's staring resolutely at Slughorn now, drinking his words in like they are of any significance, but it's not because I wanted her to.

It's because _she_ ended our conversation.

It wasn't on my terms.

This bothers me more than I care to admit to myself. Before I know what I'm doing, I lay one hand on her arm to attract her attention again. I succeed; she whips around to face me and jerks her hand away like it's been scalded.

Rejecting physical contact.

Well, that's certainly never happened to me before. The niggling in my gut blossoms into full-blown anger. How dare _she_ push _me_ away?

"What do you want?" she hisses, keeping her voice low so as not to draw unwanted stares from the rest of the potions class.

I wish I could tell her the answer to her question, but I can't. I'm damned if I know. So I say something even I don't expect.

"What are you doing on Saturday?"

She blinks her ocean-blue eyes again. A frown line appears between her eyes. "What?"

"I asked…"

"I know what you said. I'm not deaf. What I meant was, why?"

Good question. I'm not entirely sure myself. "Because it's a Hogsmeade trip."

She rolls her eyes, like I'm the bane of her existence. "I know that, Riddle."

I'm getting impatient now, and my temper is flaring, though I fight to keep it under control. She's being deliberately dense now. I know it. "Do you want to go?"

"Yeah," she responds, but then her eyes widen as my implication sinks in. She gapes at me in abject horror. "Wait, with you?"

I don't know why the idea is so unappealing to her, but I want to find out. Rage bubbles in my veins, and I can feel my carefully cultivated control slipping through my fingers for the first time in my life.

I rein it in, and smile widely in the way that makes all other girls simper. "Yes?"

Just the right amount of fragile hope and shy vulnerability leaks into my voice. Two emotions that I can't remember ever honestly feeling. I see her wavering.

"On one condition," she tells me.

"Whatever you'd like," I lie smoothly. It was easier than I thought to bring her back to my playing field, and I'm a little disappointed, for no reason I can fathom.

"If I go, you have to swap seats with Doris Crockford or Melvin Longbottom for the rest of the year," she says with a flourish. A triumphant grin lights up her pixie features.

My jaw tenses. She's challenging me! She's playing my game.

Worse, she's _winning_.

"You'd go to Hogsmeade with me, but you won't sit next to me after that? Why?"

But I suspect. A few seconds later, she confirms it for me.

"Tom, I'll go to Hogsmeade with you so that I _don't have to_ sit next to you for the rest of the year. It's one day's sacrifice I'm willing to make."

My teeth are clenched so tightly that I fear they might break apart in my mouth. "Why don't you want to sit next to me?"

People worship me. They're fanatical. She should be kissing the hem of my robes and begging me to permit her to stay.

Why isn't she?

She gives a soft laugh with a snide edge to it. "Please. You know why. You're arrogant, conceited and you think you're better than everyone else here. You hide it well, Tom. You just don't fool me for one second."

_No,_ I think, astonished_. Apparently I don't fool you in the slightest_.

And nothing has ever enraged me more than this fact.

"Okay, fine," I concede. "But you have to allow me Saturday to change your mind."

She smiles, and I recognise the expression. It's full of scorn, hiding behind layers of faux-sweetness and civility. I've seen this expression in the mirror more times than I can count. It's a powerful look.

And I have never hated it more.

"Oh, Tom, you can have all the Saturdays you want," she sighs airily. "It still won't change my mind."

"We'll see," I reply, and there's belligerence leaking through my carefully calm tone. "You'll be whistling a different tune come Sunday morning."

"I doubt it."

I huff, turning away from her, hands gripping the underside of the table in order to keep my volatile temper in check. I concentrate on taking a slow, deep breath. Slughorn's voice booms across the dungeon, distracting me.

"Tom? Are you alright?"

I fight to keep my face neutral. "I'm fine, sir."

"And you, Augusta?"

His twinkling eyes are focused on _her_, now. She bestows on him a charming grin worthy of yours truly. "Oh, yes, Professor. I'm fantastic."

_Keep calm_, I remind myself. _Don't lose control…_

"Is there anything the pair of you would like to share?" Slughorn asks in a teasing tone. "There seems to be a Slytherin/Gryffindor dispute arising at your table."

"No, sir," I say with complete sincerity. I'm a little too sincere, because he's still smiling knowingly. I wonder what it is that he thinks he knows.

"Ah, Miss Abbott, Mr Riddle, I feel that if you're going to have a lover's spat, we may have to separate you," he jokes, chuckling lightly.

"Excuse me?!" The expostulation bursts from my throat without warning, accompanied by a revolted sound from my left. Apparently she objects to that idea as much as I do.

Which, again, annoys me.

"It's okay, your secret is safe with us," he replies, winking jovially. I sit in outraged silence, too stunned to form any further words of protest. Beside me, Augusta Abbott is doing the same. She folds her arms tightly, and angles her whole body away from me, so that all I can see of her is the back of her head and the red lining of her hood.

The very idea is abhorrent to me, but right now, I am formulating a new plan.

She can resist me, if she wants, but eventually I will win.

I've never lost before.

* * *

_A/N: And yes, if you're wondering, Augusta Abbott is the future grandmother of a certain much-loved member of Dumbledore's Army ;)_

_PJ_

_x_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I just want to clarify, as it was kindly pointed out to me by _slightlysmall_, that people might be under the impression that Neville's gran and Hannah Abbott (his future wife) are closely related. They're distantly related. Augusta Abbott's cousin is Hannah's grandfather, in my head, so that makes her Augusta's third cousin and Neville's fourth cousin. (It's still a little strange, but all the pure-blood families are inter-related)_

* * *

_**Augusta**_

"Is it true?" Doris, my best friend and fellow Gryffindor, falls into step behind me as I make my way towards the Great Hall, trying to stow my Transfiguration textbook into my bag.

"Is what true?" I ask absently, still not looking at her.

"Are you going to Hogsmeade with Tom Riddle?!"

Now she has my attention. I turn to her, eyebrows raised, a slight smile on my face. She flicks her platinum blonde fringe out of her face and places both hands on her skinny hips, waiting expectantly.

"Yeah, that's true," I reply, shrugging. Her eyes widen to the size of dinner plates.

"And you were going to tell me this _when_, exactly?" she demands as we make our way towards the Gryffindor table. She lowers her voice as we pass the Slytherins, for which I'm profoundly grateful. I really don't want this news getting out. Unfortunately, Hogwarts is a place where nothing stays secret for very long.

"Um, now?" I say hesitantly, attempting a nonchalant grin. She doesn't buy it for a second.

"Please! I can't believe I sat in the common room with you _all night_, and then in Charms today for _a whole hour_, and you neglected to mention it at all!" Doris throws herself onto the bench in a parody of huffiness, and I see a couple of fourth years glance up in surprise. I smile awkwardly at them before sliding into my place beside her.

"It's not really that important," I whisper.

"Are you joking? It's _Tom Riddle_!" she hisses back. "When did he ask you? Tell me everything!"

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Doris, like everyone else in this damn school, is utterly and irrevocably infatuated with Mr. Tall, Dark and Irritating. Of course, they'd all long since stopped trying to get his attention. He made it clear that he was above all of the girls in our year, or any other year for that matter. I suppose that's part of the reason that his invitation is regarded as such a big deal.

Well, yippee for me.

"He asked me in Potions this morning," I sigh.

"You're so lucky!" she breathes, her eyes all wistful.

"That's one way of putting it," I mutter darkly, quiet enough so that she doesn't hear. Instead of discussing it any further, I lean over a third year student and help myself to a pork chop.

Thankfully, a distraction arrives in the form of Melvin Longbottom before Doris can question me any further. He's rushing along, blond hair damp with the October rain, cheeks flushed, and a bewildered but excited grin plastered across his face.

"Girls, guess what?!" he explodes, the second he drops into the seat beside Doris. Before I have a chance to ask, he continues. "I just got picked to be the new Gryffindor beater!"

"You went to the tryouts?" Doris shrieks, over-enthusiastic as ever.

"Yeah, I thought I would give it a go," Melvin shrugs, blushing slightly. "I didn't think I'd get in, though, y'know?"

"Why not?" I reply, dismissing his self-deprecating attitude. "Melvin, you're a brilliant Quidditch player, they're lucky to have you."

His cheeks colour even further when I say this, and he gives me a sheepish smile. "Thanks, Augusta."

"I'm only telling you the truth," I say, grinning. Melvin is another good friend, and just about the sweetest person I know. It amazes me that girls aren't throwing themselves at him as much as they do Riddle, because he's just as handsome. Maybe it's because he isn't aloof or mysterious, and most teenage girls can't seem to see down-to-earth and likeable as desirable qualities in a boyfriend.

If we weren't such good friends, I might find him attractive.

"When does practice start?" Doris asks, delving right into this new conversation. I don't listen to Melvin's response, but I'm inwardly grateful that his news was bigger than my stupid not-date with 'Slytherin's finest'.

Almost involuntarily, my eyes flicker over to the table where the green-clad students sit. I catch sight of Riddle, surrounded by his usual group of admirers, laughing openly at something slimy Abraxas Malfoy has just said. They're all looking at him like he's their messiah, and I suddenly feel a little queasy. I push my pork chop away, untouched.

Melvin breaks off from his conversation with Doris to give me a disapproving frown. "Augusta, you're not eating."

"I've lost my appetite," I reply quietly, staring down at my full plate.

Doris waves an airy hand in my peripheral vision. "Oh, don't mind her; she's just nervous about her date tomorrow."

Melvin chokes on his pumpkin juice. "You have a _date_ tomorrow?"

I mumble something unintelligible in response, eyes still cast down. My fingers are slowly tying themselves in knots as I wait for the inevitable question.

"With who?" Melvin demands. _Here we go…_

"Nobody," I say, at the same time Doris crows "Tom Riddle!"

Melvin looks like he's about to regurgitate the half of his steak that he's actually eaten. "Riddle? Wait, are we talking about the same person? Slytherin wonder boy _Riddle_?"

"Tall, dark, _gorgeous_ Riddle, yes!" Doris responds, though I know the question is meant for me. Melvin is possibly the only person in school who shares my opinion of Tom. Except perhaps Professor Dumbledore. I don't know why, but I've always had the feeling that he doesn't really buy his act, either.

Maybe that's why Transfiguration is my favourite subject.

"Merlin, _why_?" Melvin spits. I blanch at his tone, knowing how little he probably thinks of me right now. "I knew something like this would happen if you sat next to him in Potions..."

"Hey!" I protest, suddenly irritated. "It's not like that. I've agreed to go out with him once, on the basis that he switches seats with you for the rest of the year!"

Melvin's brown eyes widen, and he seems mollified by this. Nodding at nothing in particular, he settles back into his seat and begins hacking at his steak again.

"Well, alright then."

I smirk at his tone. Doris looks completely affronted. She's rapidly on her way to losing her status as my best friend in the world. I might demote her if she comments.

"He asks you out on a date, and you tell him you'll go as long as he stays away from you afterwards? I swear, Augusta, you're crazy." She shakes her head and rolls her eyes dramatically, before picking up her goblet and sipping her juice in huffy silence.

"Nah, she's not," Melvin chips in, a grin flitting across his face.

I decide to go ahead and rechristen him as my best friend.

"Anyway, I have prefect duty after dinner, and McGonagall will bite my head off if I'm late." Steering the subject to safer ground is the only way to combat this uncomfortable silence. It works; Doris snorts into her drink.

"Yes, she cornered me the other day and confiscated an exploding quill that I got at Dervish and Banges," she tells me, her voice muffled by the goblet.

Melvin raises his eyebrows. "What were you doing with an exploding quill?"

"I was going to put it in Montague's bag," she sighs. "Until Minerva decided to exercise her powers as Head Girl and ruin my fun."

I laugh, imagining Montague's face if she'd succeeded. It's a real shame Minerva is such a stickler for the rules, sometimes. She's the pride of Gryffindor, though, more OWLs than most of her year combined, prefect, Head Girl, she even managed to become an animagus last year. It's only because I'm so impressed by her that I grit my teeth and do everything she says. After all, she's earned the right to be a little bossy.

"Well, I'm sure she'll bring it up with me, later," I say cheerfully, swinging my legs around and clambering off the bench, snatching a roll from the breadbasket as I go.

"Sorry, if you get a lecture," Doris giggles, not sounding sorry in the slightest. I roll my eyes and swat at her.

"I'm used to it."

Munching my snack as I go, I wander from the Great Hall lost in my own thoughts. Starting up the grand staircase, I only just remember to jump the trick step in time, and have to catch myself on the banister to prevent from tumbling backwards. I knock my shin against the step in front, and wince, shoving the remainder of the bread in my mouth in order to free my hand so that I can rub my leg. The spot where it hit is red and tender, and I feel certain that it's going to bruise tomorrow.

Brilliant.

"Enjoy your trip, Abbott?"

I freeze, hunched over in an awkward position and acutely aware that my skirt has ridden a little too far up the backs of my thighs. I know that voice, and I should've guessed that he'd be the only witness to my clumsiness.

Life is unfair like that, you see.

"Very funny, Riddle. Go away," I retort. Not my best line, but direct enough. I straighten up, but don't turn around. It's a message, loud and clear.

He doesn't listen to me, though. I hardly expected him to.

"There's a trick step there," he murmurs, and I can hear the mocking laughter that he's trying to hold back. "The idea is to not put your foot near it, see?"

"Well, thank you for that valuable and not _at all_ condescending piece of advice. Your wisdom, as always, is appreciated. Now, if you don't mind, I need to go." I start to ascend the staircase, and to my eternal annoyance, I hear his footsteps following me up.

"Prefect duty?" he checks. "I'll walk with you."

"I'd rather you didn't," I grumble. He catches up with me at the top of the stairs, chuckling.

"Augusta, you can't ignore me forever." He gives me a wide, easy smile – the kind all the girls go crazy for. I sort of see where they are coming from, because he is undeniably handsome. Okay, more than handsome. His ebony hair falls into his equally dark eyes as he whirls to a stop, facing me. Blocking me from going any further.

Handsome, but unpleasant. _No amount of good looks can ever make up for a bad attitude_. That's something I'll make a point to tell my grandchildren one day, in order to keep their feet nice and grounded. Or to make them feel better.

"Oh no? Watch me," I respond, trying to edge past him. He side-steps, cutting me off again. I go the other way. Same thing. A growl of frustration slips from between my clenched teeth. "Please move."

"No." His dark eyes are twinkling with wicked humour. At least one of us finds this amusing.

"Please?" I don't sound all that sincere, but at least I'm asking nicely.

He tilts his head to one side, measuring my reaction carefully. I have absolutely no idea what he's thinking. Then he opens his mouth. "Why should I?"

It's that commanding, belligerent tone that his minions refuse to notice whenever he orders them about.

"Because you're annoying me," I enunciate.

"Well, if anything, I see that as incentive to stay where I am," he responds, and it's exactly the kind of flirtatious comment that I don't think I've ever heard come out of his mouth before, to me, at least. He's pushing a boundary. Trying to see how far he can go before I push back.

The gleam in his eyes says that he wants me to rise to the bait. So I don't. I close my eyes and inhale slowly. Then I shrug.

"Fine, have it your way, then."

His eyes widen, and I see a glimmer of – is that annoyance? – behind his irises. The emotion is gone before I can double-check, and he's easy humour is back. He walks in step beside me, our arms less than an inch away from each other, so that our sleeves brush if we swing them too vigorously. I decide that if he tries to hold my hand I might break his fingers.

He's not pushing his luck anymore, though, so he makes no attempt to even converse with me as we make our way to the old classroom where prefect meetings are held.

The silence is strained, and it seems to bounce off the stone walls of the corridor, straight back into my face. After a moment or two, I can't take it anymore.

"Why me?" I blurt out. Riddle stops, frowning down at me. From this vantage point, he is _awfully_ tall. I hold my ground though, looking balefully up into his eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"A lot of girls beg you to go to Hogsmeade with them. A _lot_. So, why do you want to go with me when it's obvious that I can't stand you?" Even as I speak, the question mystifies me. For all I see through his superficial pretences, I still don't understand him at all. I think I've barely scratched the surface.

He smirks. "Oh, Augusta, that's just it. Those insipid girls are so irritatingly desperate. I want to go with you _because_ it's obvious that you can't stand me."

I wrinkle my nose. "That doesn't make any sense."

His smirk blossoms into an authentic smile. "Maybe not to you."

I really have no clue what to make of that comment, so I let it slide and resume my silent walking. He keeps pace easily.

Minerva McGonagall is already in the classroom, waiting for the rest of us to show up, as I knew she would be. She's perched on the old teacher's desk, swinging her long legs back and forth as she waves her wand in complicated motions, her dark blue eyes focused on the ceiling. I glance up to see a small flock of canaries circling around the chandelier, and once again feel a pang of admiration and jealousy for her skill.

"You're early," she says, without glancing at either of us. "Did Longbottom tell you I put him on the team?"

The question seems to be directed at me, so I answer. "Yes, he was really excited about it."

Minerva's eyes find mine at last, and a rare smile lights up her face, transforming her from merely pretty to truly beautiful. "He flew very well. I have to say, I was impressed. I can't work out why he's waited until now to try out."

"Well, he was nervous about flying in front of everyone," I hedge. "Plus, I think he's a bit scared of you."

Minerva laughs lightly, shaking her long curtain of black hair away from her face. "Yes, I kind of got that impression a few times myself."

I grin. I can't help it. She's not so stuffy, really. And she's far better company than the other inhabitant of the room.

Just as I think this, Minerva acknowledges his presence. "Good evening, Tom," she nods in his direction.

"It seems that way," he responds, although her words were more of a greeting than a question. I can feel his eyes on me as he answers, even though I won't glance in his direction.

My suspicions are confirmed when Minerva looks from one to the other of us questioningly.

"Since the pair of you are here first, this makes my job a little easier. You two can take the first patrol of the corridors tonight."

"Together?" I ask flatly. I won't kick up a fuss with Minerva, because I know it's futile when she digs her heels in. "Shouldn't I be paired with Cadwallader?"

My fellow sixth-year Gryffindor prefect. He's an arrogant piece of work, too, but at least he's honest about it.

"Not tonight, Augusta. Have fun." There's something in the glint of her eye that makes me think that she's punishing me for Doris's exploding quill prank. Perhaps I'm just being paranoid.

"Are we not staying for the meeting then?" I wonder.

"I can't see much point, because I'm only going to be giving everyone their marching orders. You may as well get started now." Minerva shrugs, and then waves her wand with a flourish. The birds in the air vanish, and it's only in the absence of the manic twittering sound that I notice it was there to begin with.

"Come on, then, Abbott. I suppose it's just you and me, tonight," Riddle says in my ear, his voice a low hum. I repress the urge to shiver, but I'm not sure if the shiver was going to be a good thing or a bad thing.

All I know for sure is that prefect duty with Tom Riddle is _definitely_ a bad thing.

* * *

_Thanks for reading!_

_PJ_

_x_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Tom**_

Walking down the corridor with Abbott feels less uncomfortable after our last conversation. I have no idea why, but it does. The sangfroid I had been carefully cultivating the entire time she was speaking to McGonagall is evidently making me relax for the first time since I saw her on the stairs. It's a welcome relief.

"Can I ask you a question?" she says abruptly, as though we had been conversing the whole time. I blink at her, surprised that she's speaking to me, but I recover quickly.

"You just did," I point out. She rolls her eyes, as I'd known she would. It pleases me slightly, knowing that her disdain, at least, is predictable.

Yet still completely mystifying.

"Another one, then."

I spread my hands wide, a universal sign for 'go ahead'. She tilts her head to one side in a gesture that reminds me irresistibly of myself, and her wide, blue eyes are so intense that they burn. I brace myself for whatever tirade is coming my way, keeping my face completely neutral.

"Do you like girls?"

That catches me off guard. I frown at her, confused, but she doesn't elaborate any further.

"I don't follow." For once, I'm not playing dumb – I actually feel lost. It's not a particularly nice feeling.

"I mean…" A slight blush stains the soft peach of her cheeks to a light pink. Whatever she's attempting –albeit unsuccessfully – to say, it makes her uncomfortable. "Are you _attracted_ to girls, or…?"

Or, what? What else would I be attracted to? Did she really think I was completely made of stone? Much as I try to be above carnal teenage urges, I'm only human. For now, at least…

So, what did she…? Oh! My eyes widen, and my nostrils flare a little as I feel the slow heat of anger coiling through my veins. "Are you asking if I… have… for _men_?"

Not articulately phrased, an all-time first for me, but she knows what I mean. I'm furious when I see the pink in her cheeks blossom into a steady, vibrant crimson. I take her discomfort as an answer in the affirmative.

"No." I struggle to keep my breathing even, to control the rage now meticulously shredding my innards. "Of course not!"

Her gaze is everywhere but directed at my face, and the chagrin is rolling off her in almost-tangible waves. I can actually feel each level of mortification crash into my chest as I face her.

"You can't really blame me for wondering… I mean, all those girls that you turn down…" Her voice drops down so that I have to lean closer to catch her next words. "But I guess that was a little insensitive and rude. Sorry."

Huh. She's actually apologising to me. This, again, knocks me off-kilter. Another piece of her character seems to be making itself known, but I can't find the right words to describe it.

"Well, in answer to your question, those girls aren't good enough for me. I won't waste my efforts." Nobody truly is at my level. The closest I've ever come to a girl who has all of the qualities I admire in myself is Minerva McGonagall, and I wouldn't touch a filthy blood traitor like her if you gave me a million galleons.

Okay, maybe for a million galleons…

But that would serve the higher purpose of getting me away from that rat-infested muggle sewer that they dare to call an orphanage. So it would be a necessary sacrifice.

It does beg the question, though… Why would I, Tom Marvolo Riddle, deign to be seen in the company of any of the girls in this school? I realise as soon as I think it that, not only will I suffer their company with a forced smile, but the pale, embarrassed, doe-eyed girl in front of me – well, _I _actually sought _her_ out. _I_ asked _her_ to accompany me to Hogsmeade. _I_ followed _her_ out of the Great Hall.

I'm still not sure why.

I mean, objectively, she is pretty, but hardly extraordinary. She's intelligent, I suppose, but no scholar. She's witty, perhaps, but I more often want to hit her than I want to laugh.

She's… glaring at me.

"What?" I snap, momentarily forgetting to be charming.

"Why aren't those girls good enough for you, Riddle? Blood not pure enough? Genes not good enough? Not as good at magic as you?" She snorts, and it's a decidedly unattractive sound. "You make me sick."

With that, she turns on her heel and storms off, and I'm too frozen by shock to follow her just yet. I think back over the last couple of sentences of our exchange, trying to pinpoint what it is that I said that would provoke such a contemptuous reaction in her.

My eyes widen so much that they nearly fall out of their sockets when I realise that, without even meaning to, I'd been voicing my thoughts aloud. I usually censor myself so much better – why else would everyone in Hogwarts be so enamoured with me? If they knew the truth, they wouldn't bother.

"Ugh," I groan, and half-jog along the corridor until she comes into sight again.

She's still striding furiously away from me, but my legs are longer than hers, so it's relatively easy to catch her up. I reach out one hand to the girl, whirling her around so she faces me. My fingers meet around her skinny elbow, and she's frozen in place.

"Augusta, wait," I say, a little breathless from the jog. She narrows her eyes, but doesn't jerk away, which I take as a good sign. "What I said before, it came out wrong."

"Well, that's a relief," she replies, cooler than a January breeze. "Otherwise people may start thinking you're an elitist, arrogant pig. Oh, wait… that's exactly what you are."

My jaw shuts with an audible snap, but I don't contradict her. Infuriatingly enough, I don't seem to be able to lie convincingly when I'm in her company. So I opt for a new tactic.

"You're right. I am elitist, and arrogant. But there's nothing wrong with that. I do believe some people are better than others, but it's not about what you're born as. It's about who you transform yourself into."

I'm telling the truth. I mean, my blood line is murky at best, thanks to my muggle-loving mother, but I've risen above and beyond any expectations I even had of myself. It proves that extraordinary people can come from unlikely places, at best. Perhaps we shouldn't count people out based on superficial observations.

At least, I hope that's what she gleans from that.

After the longest moment, Abbott sighs. Her eyes flicker towards the ceiling in a customary look of disdain, and she folds her arms across her chest. The expression on her face is carefully neutral.

"Tom, provided you don't speak for the next three hours, I won't hex you."

I suppose that's as good as it gets. "What about Hogsmeade?"

At this, Abbott actually laughs. She throws back her long mane of hair and lets out a cry of mirth that sets my teeth on edge for no reason that I can quantify.

"Please, Tom. There's no chance. I'll go on a date with you when hell freezes over."

A burst of annoyance flares in my chest, but I quell it. She's tougher to break than I had envisioned, but like all good people, she has a weakness. Once I find it, I can exploit it, and the battle is won.

_Patience, Tom. Soon, she will be reduced to nothing. _

There, that ought to keep my temper in check.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Augusta**_

* * *

Saturday.

Hogsmeade.

_Riddle_.

Oh, wait…

For the first time since that disastrous potions lesson three days ago, I wake up with a smile on my face. I don't have to go to Hogsmeade with the stupid Slytherin elitist snob. Nope. Not me. I can just enjoy my day…

"Get up!" Something large, soft and surprisingly heavy hits me full in the face, and my eyes fly open. All I see is white, and I'm momentarily confused, before the object is removed from my head and bright light pokes me sharply in both eyes. Wincing, I blink rapidly, until a familiar grinning face swims into focus.

"Ugh. It's early!" I complain, but Doris acts like she doesn't hear me.

"Get dressed, Augusta, today's the big day!" she sings, dancing around like it's her that's managed to get a date with the most eligible idiot in the school. She just looks so enthused, though, that I almost can't bring myself to rain on her parade.

"I'm not going. I cancelled." Well, I said _almost_.

Doris drops the pillow and stares at me in abject horror. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Look, last night at prefect duty, Riddle was just being… well, _him_, and I told him to forget about it," I reply, shrugging.

"In a nice, polite, 'maybe next time' way?" Doris checks, her voice deceptively calm.

I give her a sheepish smile. "Well… I think my exact words were 'I'll go to Hogsmeade with you when hell freezes over.' So, if that's polite by your definition, then yeah…"

Doris pinches the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, looking the exact way Minerva does when the prefects all start shouting at each other – that look that says she's about to erupt, Vesuvius-style, and drown us all in molten lava. I hate that look.

Reluctantly, I slide out of bed, reaching for the blue dress hanging over the back of my chair. "So, breakfast?"

"Honest to Godric, Augusta, are you trying to give me a heart attack?" Doris grumbles softly.

"Not today, especially," I retort, grinning widely. She doesn't look amused. "Oh, come on, Crockford, lighten up! It's a beautiful day; the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and I get to spend all day in Hogsmeade with my two best friends in the world." I nudge her with my shoulder, and this seems to work; she gives me one last harrumph and then relaxes into an easy smile.

"Okay, fine. Melvin will be happy," she concedes, and there's a weird look in her eye when she says it that I'm still too tired to try to interpret.

"And you? Will you be happy?" I prompt, attempting to keep the mood light.

"I'd have been happier if you'd gone out with Riddle and introduced me to Nikolai," she mutters.

"Eurgh! _Dolohov_? Really?" I pull a face. Doris shrugs, a slight blush colouring her cheeks. Shaking my head at her seriously terrible taste in men, I head off towards the girls bathroom to get changed.

By the time we arrive in the Gryffindor common room, it's late enough for everyone else to be up and dressed. When we descend the last few steps, a wave of raucous laughter greets my ears. Intrigued, but practiced enough to know that it's not wise to go running into the midst of something without checking it out first, I poke my head around the entrance to the girls' dormitory.

A large crowd seems to be gathered around one of the old oak tables, and standing on top of the table is seventh year Bilius Weasley, commanding everyone's attention as he repeatedly turns a fourth year into a large octopus and back. People in the crowd are starting to shout requests, and Bilius complies, zapping the poor kid into first an ostrich, and then a warthog and back again. I can only just make out the top of his windswept hair.

Something about that honey-brown hair is very familiar…

"Bilius!" I yell, indignant. He stops waving his wand like a conductor's baton and catches my eyes. I watch as his cheeks colour to a flaming red shade that clashes magnificently with his bright ginger hair. "Bilius, is that _my brother_?"

"Oh, hi, Augusta. I didn't see you there…" he hedges, deliberately avoiding both my question and my gaze.

"Algernon!" I snarl, when the crowd parts slightly and I see Algie's dazed face grinning inanely at me. "What in the name of Merlin are you doing?"

Bilius mumbles something inaudible, but I think I can make out the words 'only a laugh'. I shoot him a frosty glare, and he immediately becomes fascinated with his toes.

"It's just a bit of fun, Augusta," Algie says good-naturedly, still sounding a little out of it.

"Algie, get off the table, and don't be such an idiot in future," I sigh, working to keep the smile from my face so that I can seem a little more severe. He frowns at me like he's about to argue, until one of his friends seizes his arm and yanks him off the table to safety. I spare Bilius another dirty look, and brush past the baying crowd on my way out of the portrait hole, Doris at my heels.

"Morning," Melvin meets us there, waving cheerfully in our direction.

"Please tell me you weren't watching that without intervening," I say to him by way of greeting. He casts his deep brown eyes around the room for another excuse, but can't seem to find one, because he sighs.

"Yeah, I was. It was pretty funny."

I roll my eyes and carry on walking.

"She cancelled on Tom Riddle today, so she's coming to Hogsmeade with us," Doris tells him in the world's worst stage-whisper.

"Oh, I'm sorry," says Melvin, although he couldn't sound less sorry if he tried.

I fight a grin. "I'm not. Let's have lunch at the Three Broomsticks today."

"Only if you're paying," Doris sings sweetly at me. I laugh.

"Okay, I'll buy lunch, if you promise not to moan about Riddle all day," I counter.

Melvin interjects. "How about _I_ buy lunch if _neither_ of you mention his name until we're safely back in Hogwarts?"

Doris and I exchange a quick glance, a wordless communication zinging between us.

"Deal," we chorus.

* * *

The Three Broomsticks was crowded when we entered, and the three of us were in unusually high spirits as we chomped our way through lamb chops and roast pumpkin. Melvin had been regaling us with the blow-by-blow account of his first Quidditch practice, and to our credit, we made a good audience, ooh-ing and ahh-ing in all the right places.

We continue on chatting until the light is beginning to fade from the pearly-grey sky, and only then do I stand up and drain the last of my butterbeer.

"We should really be heading back to the castle," I say, and I see the other two nod their agreements, busying themselves with collecting their various Honeydukes bags as I fasten my cloak around my throat.

I wave a cheery goodbye to Morgana, the barmaid, as we leave. She grins back at me from over the head of a man with wiry auburn hair that I instantly recognise as the surly landlord of the other, less frequented pub in Hogsmeade – the Hog's Head.

I'm pretty sure he's related to Professor Dumbledore, but I've never quite worked up the nerve to ask him directly. He never mentions his family in lessons.

The cold air hits me like a slap in the face, and Melvin shivers as he steps out behind me.

"Oh, it's freezing!" he huffs, his breath misting out in front of him.

"Let's hurry up and g-get back to the c-c-castle," Doris mutters, teeth chattering loudly on my left. I hug my cloak tighter around me and nod.

The three of us set off at a brisk pace up the damp, cobbled street, but we've barely gotten more than ten paces when a voice calls from behind me.

"So, Abbott, think you're too good for Tom, do you?"

My teeth clench together, and the clacking sound they were making dies. I turn around slowly, cheeks stinging in the wind, to see Lucretia Black, hands propped on hips, green cloak billowing out in the wind. I groan.

"Oh, what do you want?"

She looks affronted, as though she can't believe I would dare speak to her, a Black, in such an impertinent manner. Cry me a river.

"Nothing from you," she spits vehemently in my direction. "I just wanted to tell Longbottom here that I'm so happy his brother is joining our family."

Melvin looks anything but thrilled by this news. "What?"

"Did you not hear?" Lucretia's dark eyes widen in faux-innocence. "Harfang proposed to Callidora. There's an announcement in the Daily Prophet."

"Oh, brilliant," Melvin snaps, looking as though someone just told him Christmas is going to be cancelled this year. "When's the wedding?"

Lucretia titters. "You mean, you don't know yet? I can't believe you haven't got your invitation. Walburga and I received ours months ago, isn't that right?"

To my horror, another unwelcome Black steps into view from behind a streetlamp. Walburga sneers at me with her blood-red lips, dark eyes flashing maliciously. Then she turns her attention to Melvin. "Oh, yes. Maybe your brother doesn't want you there, seeing as how all you do is hang out with blood traitors like Abbott, or that mudblood over there."

She nods at Doris like she can't hear the entire conversation, and I see red.

My hand plunges into my robes, and before I know what I'm doing, my wand is out and pointing straight into Walburga's smoothly arrogant face.

"Call her that again, Black, and they'll be sending what's left of you to St Mungo's in a snuffbox," I snarl. I'm dimly aware that Melvin has drawn his wand too, whether to aid me or prevent a fight, I'm not sure.

"Why? Are you afraid that I'm going to hurt her precious little baby feelings?"

Lucretia gives a loud cackle at her cousin's words. I growl again, deep in the back of my throat. Doris lays one hand gently on my arm to restrain me.

"Just leave it, Augusta, they aren't worth it," she whispers.

"Yeah, Augusta, just leave it! Listen to your little mudblood friend!" Walburga taunts. We raise our wands simultaneously, and our voices mingle in the air.

"_Stupefy!_"

"_Petrificus totalus_!"

"_Protego_!"

Both Black and I are knocked off-balance by the shield charm that suddenly springs between us. I whip around, glaring accusingly at Melvin, but he only shrugs. I raise one eyebrow at Doris on the other side, but she just shakes her head back at me, her face pasty white with shock.

It's only then that I notice the three tall figures striding towards us in the snow.

Teachers? Oh, great. But the closer they get, the less they look like teachers. It's only when they're ten feet away that I see the green lining of their cloaks.

No, not teachers. _Slytherins_. Fantastic.

The three boys pause at the edge of the shield that has sprung up between us and the two Black girls, looking from one group to the other questioningly. Then, as one, they lower their hoods. The first thing I notice is the sleek, white blond hair of Abraxas Malfoy. Then I see the chestnut brown curls of Nikolai Dolohov. And, lastly – who else? – the handsome, unruffled face of Riddle.

"Fighting in the street, are we, girls?" Malfoy asks silkily. "Oh dear, that's not very ladylike."

Walburga blushes slightly, but I round on him, my teeth bared.

"Anything else you'd like to say, Malfoy? Come on, have a go, without your stupid shield charm. Let's see if you'd win in a duel!"

Malfoy chuckles, but it's a smoother, more commanding voice that speaks into the tense silence.

"Actually, that would be _my_ stupid shield charm."

_Of course, Riddle. Because everywhere I look you seem to be getting in my way, lately. _

"Now, ladies, can't we all just behave ourselves? Be a bit more civilised? I'd hate to have to put you both in detention," Riddle continues lightly, a teasing gleam behind his eyes.

"I'm a prefect, Riddle," I grunt. "You can't put me in detention."

"True, but I can report you for misconduct, Augusta. And I'd really rather not do that."

My gaze flits to him for a second, to see that condescending smirk flickering across his face. My grip on my wand tightens infinitesimally.

"She started it," I spit, a little childishly. Riddle laughs.

"Oh, I don't doubt it."

"She refused you, Tom. Why would you want to stick up for her?" Walburga challenges contemptuously. I see a vein pulse in Riddle's temple for a second, and it's like a black cloud descends over his expression. It's only for a moment, though, and then it clears.

"It's of no consequence to me, Walburga."

"She's just jealous," I say acerbically. "Why are you dating your cousin, Walburga? Is it because nobody outside of your own family is crazy enough to have you?"

She makes a noise like an angry cat and starts forwards. Riddle holds up his hands to keep her in place, but I can tell he's trying not to laugh, and for the first time I wonder if he's privately agreeing with me.

It almost makes him more tolerable.

"Are you going to stop fighting and just leave each other alone so that I can reverse this shield, now?" he asks quietly.

"Yeah," I shrug. I've got my punch in, even if it wasn't a physical blow. Grim satisfaction fills me when I see that the Black girls – both of them – are positively hopping with rage. But they wouldn't dare disagree with their _master_.

"Fine," Walburga hisses, and Riddle jerks his wand up in a nonchalant arc.

I feel the shield dissolve into nothingness.

"Let's go," Riddle commands, and his followers hasten to leave. All except one, that is. Before I can even draw breath, Walburga steps forward, closing the distance between us and sticking her wand right in my face.

"Sorry, Tom," she calls, and he wheels around when he realises that she's not with the others. "But I think teaching Abbott a lesson is worth the detention."

With pure malice in her eyes, she opens her mouth…

* * *

_A/N; To be continued. _


End file.
